


Lingering Affliction

by AvaKelly



Series: Phantasmagoria [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Mission Fic, Natasha has feels, black Widow centric, do not try at home, gym conversations, snipers running from medical, surprise?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 15:07:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4440539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaKelly/pseuds/AvaKelly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I can teach you," she offers.</p><p>That's when Steve walks in with an nearly empty bowl. "Teach him what?" he asks before shoving the last handful of the popcorn in his mouth.</p><p>"Fisting."</p><p>Yes. Popcorn everywhere.</p><p>~<br/>This story follows Natasha, from the basement and until after they return to the base. Please, read the notes before proceeding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lingering Affliction

**Author's Note:**

> Here we pick up from where Natasha enters into the Ghosts story. There are some passages that might not make sense to you if you haven't read one (or both) of those. (See the rest of the series for them.)
> 
> Beta'd by the ever patient Lily the Cat. (let me know if there's anything we missed)
> 
> Now, this is important. DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME. Not without proper knowledge and a lot of lube.
> 
> To all vagina owners: I can't stress enough how important it is to be careful. Cut your fingernails, wash your hands, use lube. Don't let another put their paws near you, unless you know your body first. Be careful, ok? 
> 
> Also, remember that this is a work of fiction, so I took some liberties. :)
> 
> Comments appreciated. Comments are like the cookies of Ao3. And the cupcakes of Ao3. And the pancakes of Ao3. Now I'm hungry.
> 
> Thanks for reading! o/

_Breathe in, breathe out. Steady._

_Stop._

_Again._

_Breathe in, breathe out._

~

Natasha concentrates on the shuffling in the corridor, something heavy being dragged and dropped, a door closing. She counts footsteps. A lilt, stealthy bounce, so soft that no other could have picked it up, vestiges of Budapest.

Clint.

Clint's face is too pale as he peeks into the cell. He'd been ashen, when she'd left for Kuala Lumpur, but that's the way it always goes after a clusterfuck of a mission. Isn't it? Clint had been fine.

_Shake it off._

"What took you so long," she grits, as loud as she dares. _Clint had been fine_.

"Why didn't you get out, if you're not dead," comes back a little too forcefully for her liking.

"Not without them!" she gestures around herself, shuddering again at the sight of bruises and fright filled eyes. Why is he asking stupid questions.

Clint is quiet as he picks the lock, then opens the door. Everyone stays quietly inside the cell, just as Natasha and the other two agents have instructed.

"We're taking this place down," she says after she steps out into the hallway. Clint seems off, somehow.

"There's a passage into a house a few streets over," he offers, "entrance is in a basement, but on the other side," he points to his right. "This corridor goes to the weapons storage and into the party upstairs."

Natasha takes that in, drawing a map in her head. "They brought us in from this side," she nods her head in the same direction. "I think I saw the way you came in, large steel door with a big C on it?"

"That's the one," Clint confirms with a nod.

"Fucking unbelievable, this guy is like a ridiculous movie villain," she huffs. "I'll take them out that way," she says, and accepts the gun, knives, and the comm he gives her.

He's barely looked her in the eye. Something is wrong and she can't help the dread crawling up her spine.

"Going to get Rogers and Banner," Clint says and Natasha's thoughts derail so fast, she can't stifle a squeak. Banner and enclosed spaces are not a good combo.

"Banner's here?" she asks, but, before he can answer, a loud bang resonates through the air with the vibration of the walls.

Everything other than the mission will have to wait. Clint runs off to one end of the corridor, while Natasha motions for Franklin and Jones to help open the doors. Soon, they are quietly leading the released victims through the basement and she fixes the comm unit in her ear.

"This is Black Widow," she says, "who am I speaking to?"

"This is bruised banana, over," comes back in Morrow's mocking tone.

" _Not_ the time for jokes," Natasha warns, but breathes with relief. The sniper is alive. "What happened to you?" When their rescue had delayed, she'd considering the worst, Morrow's either capture or death. Neither possibility could be confirmed, even if nobody'd come to execute them, which meant their covers were intact. Nevertheless, torture isn't fun, so she's relieved Morrow hadn't been found by Lancas' men.

"Fell from roof Hawkeye style," Morrow says and Natasha gives back a knowing tsk. "What's your status?"

"Moving toward underground passage with prisoners. Something exploded."

"Yeah, doc's heading out now, he sounds freaked," Morrow adds after a pause, "others fighting. Want me in there?"

Natasha considers it. "No, cover us. Call for back up."

"Will d-- Shit."

Natasha stops in her tracks, followed by a general shuffle as everyone halts behind her.

"Backup's already here, two quinjets, medical and strike," Morrow says, "they're landing in target's garden."

"Redirect medical to the other location, where the tunnel ends," Natasha offers after she considers their route. A sharp whistle and a crackle punch through the line, pulling a wince out of her.

"Their comms are down," comes from Morrow. She agrees.

"Op's yours," she barks, because Clint doesn't lose his comm unless by force. Or accident. Mostly by force. "Who else is with him?"

"Just the captain," comes back from the sniper.

"Going back for them after everyone's out. Take over," and with that she passes the comm to Jones.

_Clint is not fine._

~

_Breathe in, breathe out. Steady._

_Stop. Kick. Incapacitate._

_Again._

_Snap. No, necks crunch. Why did this one snap? Stop._

_Stop shaking._

_Breathe in, breathe out._

_Move. Run. Breathe. Kill._

~

There's a burn growing denser behind her eyes, spreading tendrils into her skull. In the house at the other end of the underground passage, one last guard falls to the dusty floor and they're out. Medical's already sifting through the door on the far side of the empty room, so Natasha signals Franklin and goes back the way they came.

She steadies her breaths to low and exact, measuring them with the throbbing behind her eyelids, focusing on noises, voices, footsteps. There are new goons checking on those left unconscious by her first pass through, and she fights. She surrenders herself to the movements, because thinking too much right now would be her demise. These guys aren't that well trained, but a moment of inattention and it's all over.

It doesn't take long for her to make her way back into the corridor holding the cells, and she runs into the strike team just as they're descending from the ground floor.

"In there," she nods at the other door in the small space at the bottom of the stairs and the point man signals his team mates. Natasha recognizes him as one of Hernandez's guys. A good team.

They make their way silently through, but it's too quiet. Every room is just deserted storage space, except for one. Bodies litter the floor, burn marks stretching atop a circuitry laden table. Natasha takes it in carefully, and finally lays eyes on the pieces of a broken comm on the floor.

No sign of Clint, or Rogers.

"Banner?" she turns and asks one of the agents.

"He's upstairs with Hernandez," comes back. That's good then. She offers a nod and a thank you.

They're all inspecting the room, but nothing leads to where the targets and their fellow agents have disappeared. Ten minutes later Hernandez comes down followed by Samuels. Natasha snorts as she fits a new comm in her ear. If Fury had not one, but two strike teams close by, why the fuck did he need to sent _Clint_ and _Rogers_ and _Banner_ , of all people, in... oh.

She restrains from rubbing her temples. It's a test.

~

_Breathe in, breathe out._

"Hey man, good to see you again, long flight?"

_Stop._

"What the hell is this place?"

_Looks like a maze to me._

"You gotta see this, I think it's Lancas' office."

_He's lost._

"Found a map."

_Run. Kill. Get to him._

~

Natasha stops in the doorway, scanning the room before her. She presses her fists into her hips. _Shaking is a weakness._ A relieved sigh tries to make its way out of her throat, but she turns it into an appreciative hum. If Clint can bend like that to look behind her, then he's fine. _Clint is fine_.

"Haven't lost your touch I see," she tells Clint, but he points at the captain.

"This one was all him."

"Wow, Rogers, didn't know you had it in you," she offers, admiring the destruction around them.

She wonders for a brief moment why Carson is tied to the ceiling, but her attention is drawn to the wound in Rogers' shoulder. She raises an eyebrow in question, but Rogers points to Clint, who shrugs. It's the way Rogers looks at Clint that tells her what she needs to know. Clint's still not meeting her eyes.

"Really." She crosses her arms to keep from strangling Rogers, watching Clint from the corner of her eye. _Breathe._ She's seen what the good captain hides. After all, kindred spirits know each other.

"Apparently so," Clint confirms.

Further explanation would be great right now, she reckons as she turns back toward Rogers.

"He's one of a kind," he offers. Of course.

"I. Know." She presses and wonders how much Steve's actually grasped of her friend.

"Status," Clint interrupts.

"Got everyone out safely, Banner's calm, didn't change, got the armed grunts, weapons are secured, warheads disabled, found documents in Lancas' office detailing several more operations than we expected," Natasha reports.

"And you did all that," Clint rolls his finger in the air, "before coming to get us? Where are we anyway?"

"Still in the basement, this place is a fucking fortress, it took us a while to locate you." With a hiss a voice drifts into her ear.

"Agent, good job today. Put Barton on," the SHIELD director says without preamble.

"Fury wants to talk to you," she relays and hands Clint the receiver.

It doesn't bode well. Questions arise. One: how did Fury know she'd found Clint? And two: what is he going to make Clint do _this_ time? Well, they must have been listening in on her. Good thing nothing relevant was said out loud. As to the second matter, Clint's face says it all as he stares at the unconscious Lancas on the floor.

_Stop._

She takes back the comm when he hands it over.

_Stop shaking. Breathe._

It's the look on his face. He doesn't want to.

_She didn't want to, either. Stop. Breathe._

There is pain in disobedience.

_Stop breathing._

Sometimes there isn't enough air. Sometimes air is precious and dear. And not here.

_Die._

She has to breathe. But she doesn't go far, leaning against the cold wall. She can still see them, through a crack in the door, their muffled voices drifting in the silence.

"What did he want?"

"They're bad people."

_Click._

"How bad?"

"Very. Selling people against their will bad."

Sometimes, there's benevolence in the demons we carry. Natasha watches the monsters in the other room, shouldering one another's burdens, and she finally gets it. He's taken over for her. Cherishing. Protecting.

_Stop shaking._

It's long moments before they emerge. One broken, one torn, but oh so beautiful, both of them. Precious creatures that don't belong among humans, just like her.

"Tasha..."

Just like that, one word and he sneaks back under her skin. The burning behind her eyes overflows, as her arms find their way around him.

Clint shakes _for her._ It's not a weakness. Not anymore.

"Steve..." Clint's voice breaks, "he..."

"I know." She lets go and grabs his shoulders. "Let's get you home."

Steve, huh?

~

 _Do not snap your teeth. It is not lady like._ But the agent approaching them suddenly changes course. She smiles to herself. So easy. Clint and R-- no, Steve, they need their space. And considering the vacant look in Steve's eyes, he's crashing fast. She can see it now, why Clint's chosen him.

~

"I'm sorry I ran," she tells Clint in the quinjet flying them home, and even lets _Steve_ measure her.

She's forgiven, with a shift of Clint's bloody fingers.

"Actually, can you do me a favor?" Clint asks. "Get them to drop us off at the tower, Fury can shove his debriefing up his--"

Morrow coughs loudly from a corner and Clint rolls his eyes at her. Natasha smirks and complies.

_Clint will be fine._

~

After dropping the three Avengers at the tower, the quinjet lands on the deck of their New York headquarters in the very late hours of night, the promise of dawn visible in the softening colors of the sky. Franklin and Jones are only sporting a few scratches and bruises, but Morrow is quickly whisked to the infirmary.

"Where's agent Barton?" Hill's voice announces her presence behind Natasha and she turns.

"Did you know?" she asks instead of an answer. Hill's not getting her debriefing today, anyway.

"Yes," Maria raises her chin with a grimace.

Typically, Fury gets what Fury wants. Natasha raises her arms in a half shrug. "Interrogate the others," she says, tilting her head to the disembarking strike team, "I'll come later."

"What about--"

"I'll talk to them," Natasha says before walking away.

No point in further conversation. She's filthy, her evening dress is ripped at the knees to give her freedom of movement, and long holes mar the once pristine stockings. The shoes have been lost some time ago. Too bad, they were good shoes. She notices the streaks of dirt on her arms when she pulls her hair into a messy bun to keep it out of her face until she can get into a shower. Her mouth stinks when she breathes into her palm, and she can't help but make a face at the dirt caked under her fingernails, visible beneath chipped polish. This irks her more than anything, so she ducks into the first bathroom she sees. It doesn't take long, well rehearsed scrubbing and digging through the soap suds, and her skin stings now, but her hands are clean. The rest can wait.

Medical is her first stop. Her check-up doesn't lag, the staff is well acquainted with her impatience by now. There are no injuries, but a few expected bruises.

_Good. Shower. Sleep. Breathe--_

"What's wrong?" she asks an agitated nurse that's hurrying down the hallway.

The man rolls his eyes. "Damn snipers keep running away from us."

Huh. Snipers. It takes a beat too long to understand, she must be more tired that she'd thought, but he's gone by then. Morrow. Where would she go? If it were Clint - and he's truly not a stranger to escaping the clutches of medical -, she'd know instantly where to find him. Her friend is very fond of the range on the 5th floor. Oh, could be that Morrow's not that different, and Natasha pulls from memory the conversations she's had with the sniper during their mission.

Yes, there she is, in the tiny gym on the 23rd floor in the south building, the one behind the storage rooms that make the entire area smell like bleach. There's only a punching bag hanging on the side, across from a couple of cupboards, and there's no bathroom, but the entire floor is covered in mattresses. It's a nice room for a private spar, so Natasha takes a mental note of it.

Morrow is half leaning on the bag in her hospital gown, punching it between ragged breaths. She's holding her fist too loose, and it's only going to lead to broken fingers. Natasha shakes her head with the memory of a young Clint punching the wall with an already swollen hand. It makes her inhale lodge stubbornly inside her lungs, from how Clint is not here, not hers to mend post-mission, not anymore. But she forces the air out, breathes deeply. Well, Clint might not need her today, but there are quite a few young agents that could use a shoulder from time to time. Like Morrow.

"You need to be in medical," she says, startling the sniper.

"Fuck off, Romanov," comes back with anger.

That's too impersonal. She needs to remedy this if she's going to help.

"Name's Natasha, Sonya."

"So what," Sonya turns glaring, "op's over. Can't order me around."

One of Natasha's eyebrows raises in surprise. "I'm here to _help_."

Morrow gapes at her with disbelief. "What kind of help would I want from _you_ , huh? Hey, maybe you can strangle me with your thighs," she adds with a sneer.

"This is uncalled for," she replies while trying to smooth the frown forming on her own forehead. "Come back to medical."

Sonya barks out a halted laugh before turning to the bag and driving her fist into it. She hisses as she twists her torso.

"Your ribs are broken?" Natasha asks when she sees the outline of bandages under the thin gown.

"Just bruised," Sonya grits, "now get the fuck out."

"No," comes out of her mouth before she can stop it. Sonya's petulance seems to be contagious. "I can help, I've done it before," she adds, softening her tone.

"Yeah? What poor sob did you torture with your _help_ ," Morrow turns and wiggles her fingers in the air in a mockery of quotation marks.

"I help Barton all the time!" she defends, and why is she letting Sonya push her buttons like this. She should know better, but this wound is too fresh, and Morrow's got her paws inside before Natasha can close it, protect herself.

"Is that why he looks like death ran him over?"

And... there it is. It bubbles out through her throat, the anger. The pain, there is no anger without pain or fear, Natasha reminds herself, just as she pushes forward. Sonya's back hits the wall with a loud thud, and the hospital gown's paper-like fabric creaks around Natasha's fingernails.

Sonya lets out a small huff of laughter before her knee embeds itself in Natasha's middle, sending her back half a step. It takes her by surprise, a testament of how off kilter she is, so much that she doesn't see the punch landing on her cheek either. It sends her sprawling on the mattress. Morrow grins, chest heaving. _Well, fuck you too, then_ , Natasha thinks as she wipes the drop of blood at the corner of her mouth.

Fuck all training.

With an unabated shout she throws herself at Sonya, fists connecting with flesh in satisfying thumps.

Fuck all breathing.

Her knuckles hurt. Sonya gives as good as she gets, but Natasha is stronger, after all. She soon has the sniper on the floor, curled on her side after a particularly painful blow to her torso. Natasha straddles her hip, holding her down with one hand, and drawing her other fist back when she hears it. The softest of murmurs, spilling from Morrow's lips.

"Hitmehitmehitme..."

Sonya's eyes are screwed shut, her forearm curled protectively over her ear. All tension drains from Natasha's coiled body.

_Breathe in, breathe out._

She pulls at Sonya's arm, trying to see her entire face. But it earns her a lashing out, when it's clear no more blows are coming. The shuffle only lasts a second before Natasha has Sonya pinned beneath her, holding down her wrists.

" _Hit! Me!_ " Morrow yells, body arching off the floor, but Nat's got her.

"Why?" she asks, voice barely above a whisper.

"I almost died, Romanov, come on, please..." comes back with a sob.

"You've almost died before," she counters, releasing Sonya's wrists and shifting to sit next to her. No reason to be _this_ self destructive.

"Not like this. Closest I've even been."

Morrow begs again with a raspy please, but when Natasha makes no move, she skirts her fingers over her own ribs, and it pulls a frustrated gasp out of her when Natasha grabs her hand. Ah, so this is what it's all about. Affirmation of life lingering about. Proof that death hasn't won.

"Not like this," she says, "this is not good pain."

"And you know good pain," Sonya huffs.

It's not something to be explained with words, so Natasha just looks at her pointedly. After a long moment, the sniper exhales, turns her face away.

"Yeah, I guess you do. They really fucked you over, didn't they," she sniffs.

"Not this one," Nat confesses, leaning closer. "This is all mine. Mine to control, mine to have, mine. They never tainted it," she whispers, close to Sonya's ear. And maybe she's losing her mind, but she wants to share this. Clint's never known, why would he, since he'd have no use of this information. Perhaps Sonya will cherish it, just as Natasha does.

Sonya turns her head then, cheek scraping Natasha's, and she stops when their noses connect.

"This pain," Nat whispers, lips grazing Morrow's, "you can hide easily. No one will look for bruises there, unless you tell them," she adds, stretching next to Sonya. "You can carry it for days, without anyone knowing," Natasha extends her hand and drags up the hospital gown, "I can show you," then pulls at the band of Sonya's underwear.

Consent comes when Sonya lifts her hips, lets the cotton be slid off her legs.

"I'll make it painful, but it won't hurt you, ok?" Nat adds for good measure.

"Yeah, do it," comes back with a fluttery exhale.

Natasha can feel Sonya's heartbeat rise against her ribs. This is good, since there isn't any sort of safe lubricant around. She's going to have to do this the old fashioned way. It's only a small step for her to take Sonya's lips between her, and she nips, just enough to add to the press against Sonya's clit.

"Concentrate on this," Nat rubs and pulls the nub between two fingers, "want you wet."

Sonya huffs and closes her eyes before grabbing with both hands onto Natasha. "Smooth."

"Tsk, shut the fuck up, Morrow," she barks against the other's lips, then forces them open to thrust her tongue in. It has the intended effect, Natasha finds, when one of her fingers slides easily through wetness and into smooth heat. "Look at me," she says, and waits for Sonya's eyelids to snap open. "I'm _not_ going to stretch you."

A beat and a sharp inhale before it finally dawns on Sonya. "Yeah, yeah, do it," she breathes and it makes Nat smile.

She arranges them both on their sides, facing each other, and pulls Sonya's leg on her hips, sneaks her hand back. Sonya wraps her arms around Natasha and it's pleasant how the embrace fits them.

"Hold on," is the only warning she gives before pushing the tips of all four fingers in, pressed tightly together, thumb folded inside her palm. Her hand is quite small, so it will fit, but she listens carefully for discomfort. There must be pain, yes, but not as forceful as to rupture tissue.

Natasha pushes in slowly, but unrelentingly. She doesn't stop, not even at Sonya's breathy whimper.

"You're doing well," she encourages and is rewarded with a hot wet pulse around her fingers. This is good, Natasha grins, and takes Sonya's lips again, licking inside her mouth and pushing inside her body bit by tiny bit.

When her knuckles finally reach the ring of muscle, she pulls out and pushes in, enough for the bones to hit back, but not breach.

"Feel that?" she asks and Sonya's eyes snap open. Nat repeats the motion.

"This _does_ hurt," comes back in awe.

"Mhm," Natasha smiles knowingly. "It's going to hurt for _days_ ," she adds, "every time you take a step, every time you sit down," a peck on dry lips, "and it will be _your_ secret."

Another push, another wet pulse.

By now Sonya's breathing heavily, and Natasha knows this anticipation, it's quite delightful.

And _twist_.

It's perfect, the throaty shout that barely passes through Sonya's lips, the way her body convulses, the pop and slide, the heat encircling Natasha's wrist.

So perfect. _Breathe in_. Relax.

"Fuck," Sonya rasps, trembling hands gripping tightly onto Nat.

"Isn't it," Natasha agrees, crooning.

"Fuck," comes back as the only reply, Sonya's wide eyes shining wetly.

"Look how well you're taking it," Nat encourages again, pleased smile on her face. "You're beautiful when in pain," she adds, licking at Sonya's mouth, "wanna taste your tears, gimme."

It works. Sonya's eyelids flutter along the ragged sound making its way out of her throat, and fat tears slide onto her cheeks. "Hurts..." she croaks.

"Yes," Nat agrees, kissing the wet skin, "and you know why?" A head shake and another trembling inhale. "Because you're alive."

Sonya curls in then, a sob wrecking her body, and Nat shifts to wrap her free arm around the other's shoulders. She hums softly, rocking them both, for a while, until Morrow grows silent again. It won't be enough, though, she knows it. Past experience has taught her this won't last as long as Sonya needs.

"Come on," she pushes a pliant Sonya, rearranging her, "on your back." Nat moves to kneel between now open legs. "Around me," she pats on a thigh, and Sonya complies, crossing her ankles behind Natasha's back. It leaves her exposed and Nat smiles at her shudder.

"What are you gonna do," Sonya asks, trepidation palpable in her voice.

"I'm going to fist you properly," Natasha returns, pressing her free hand on Sonya's abdomen and slowly twisting the other one inside. "Hold still."

"'s gonna hurt worse, isn't it," comes back with a mumble.

"You can take it," Nat smiles gently and places a kiss on Sonya's knee. "I want you to be very quiet and very still," she whispers, "focus on the pain, remember it." She moves her hand with a twist, pulling out slowly, lets her knuckles graze on tight muscle. "Can you do that for me, beautiful?"

Sonya nods, swallowing her own breathy pants. She lifts herself, leaning on her elbows to watch, eyes wide. Natasha can't wipe the smile off her face. The way Sonya's body responds is exquisite, and it reminds her of her own, so she predicts the sensations, chases them and relays them through the motions of her hand. All her fingers are out, glistening in the harsh neon light, and she doesn't waste time before making a fist. She presses in knuckle first this time, pulling a gasp from Sonya.

"'s not gonna fit," her voice drifts shakily.

"Yes it will," Nat replies, but then considers it. "You've never done this before."

"Ngh-uh," Sonya mumbles with a slow shake of head, air lodging in her throat as Natasha pushes.

"Hey, breathe," she coaxes, petting the quivering muscles of Sonya's abdomen. "We'll do four."

"Four," Sonya repeats, exhaling.

"Four fists."

"Four fists," returns again, this time with heavy slow huffs, in and out, and Natasha matches her breathing, locks their eyes together.

_Breathe in. Breathe out. Push in._

Sonya's mouth opens in a silent scream, her legs squeezing tightly around Nat.

_Pull out._

There's such delicious trembling.

_Push in. Pull out and in again, fast._

Natasha's heart is trying to beat out of her chest and her insides are _throbbing_ along with Sonya's. Oh. She drags her hand out one last time, slower, and she _knows_ it. It is clear in the matching vibration of their bones, the dilation of their pupils.

_Shake harder. And in._

She pushes, one last time, and surges forward with the movement until she can reach Sonya's mouth, swallow her scream, match her pleasure. Nat's own heartbeats elongate with the brightness behind her eyelids, and she can't believe she's actually come in her panties. She removes her hand from the lax body in front of her just as Sonya's fingers sneak under her dress to feel the wetness there.

Sonya snorts. "You sick fuck," she slurs, and that's all it takes.

"Hah..." inhale, "ahaha!" Natasha slumps over, quaking with laughter. Morrow chuckles low, eyes closed, and wraps Nat in her arms, caressing her back.

Their mirth soon subsides, but leaves behind a pleasant, satisfying tingle. Natasha raises on an elbow and watches Sonya's relaxed face until eyes open to look up at her. She wipes the tear streaked cheeks before leaning down to peck at hot dry lips.

"Your breath stinks, Romanov," comes back and their returned laughs reverberate in the room.

Nat raises slowly and pulls the discarded underwear back on Sonya's legs. She takes her time to check for damage before climbing to her feet. "How about I help you with a shower and then you go back to medical?"

A deep sigh comes back instead of an answer, as Morrow accepts the extended hand. The door of the gym opens easily with a soft click when they make their way out.

"This was unlocked the whole time?"

"Seems so," Natasha responds, unimpressed.

"Just as well," Sonya slumps in defeat. "Wow, this really fucking hurts," she adds, trying to limp along.

"Walk normally," Natasha hisses and grabs her arm. "It will hurt more."

"This isn't very supportive, agent."

"You're the one who started a fight with _me_ , so stop whining," she grits, before realizations dawns. "I could have killed you," Natasha adds with a murmur.

Sonya moves her arm around Nat's shoulder, leaning slightly on her. "Sorry," she whispers.

Natasha leaves it at that. They make their way slowly toward the nearest quarters, which happen to be Nat's, when curiosity gets the best of her. "So if someone walked in?" she asks Sonya, trying to gauge her acceptance of this matter.

A short laugh, and "Are you kidding me? Who would've bothered me then, after finding Black Widow with her arm in me up to the elbow?"

"It was barely to the wrist!"

"Shut up, Romanov."

"How are you turning me into a c _hild_."

~

Natasha must have been exhausted. Her half hour nap has turned into several hours and she yawns in her hand inelegantly all through debrief, making Hill roll her eyes regularly. It's afternoon by the time she manages to weasel her way into Fury's office.

She sits down in one of the visitor chairs, arms crossed, and regards him with a tilt of her head.

Fury rubs at his forehead. "It had to be done. You, more than me, know this had to be done," he says.

Of course, he's right, it had to be done. It doesn't mean she has to like it.

"Don't do it again," she relents, before standing up and moving to the door.

"You know, Romanov," Fury calls after her, "when I first laid eyes on you, I thought I was gonna have to put both of you down."

What a convoluted way to show appreciation. So she turns with her best innocent smile, looking at him from beneath her eyelids. "Yes, sir."

"Oh, for fuck's sake, stop that. I wanna see Barton, Rogers, and Banner here for debrief. Asap."

"How about I debrief them at the tower?" she counters, and Fury considers it for a long moment. "They'll be more cooperative this way, after this shit of an op. They're not blind."

"I guess." A sigh, and another rub of temples. "Fine."

_Breathe in, breathe out. Smile. You're alive. They're alive._

No pain in _this_ disobedience.

~

There's already an adjusted story in her head to match her own debrief as she waits for the elevator to open into Banner's lab. She's lied for Clint and damned everything if she's not going to turn Fury's _'test'_ into a success.

Well, perhaps lied is too harsh of a word. Polished the truth, yes. That's better.

"Hey, doc," she calls after the doors open with a ping.

"Agent Romanov," Banner walks up to her, wiping his glasses distractedly. "What can I do for you?"

"How about joining me for tea, we have some debriefing to do," she offers. And Banner whines. Actually. Fucking. Whines. How is this her life now? "It's with me here, or with Fury at base," she smiles as serenely as she can muster.

"Lead the way, then," doc says without missing a beat.

They huddle at the kitchen counter with hot tea and Nat takes careful notes of Banner's - please, call me Bruce - story on her tablet. It's pleasant and amicable and quiet. They're finished by the time two loud thuds pull their attention to the outer deck. Through the glass wall separating the kitchen from the living room, they watch Thor and Stark stroll in, both their armors sliding off, Thor's into whichever magical place has spawned it, Stark's into a neat little suitcase tucked under the coffee table.

"Well, well, well," Stark says as he enters the kitchen, "were you kids good? Boy am I starving, flew straight from Malibu."

"I'm famished as well," Thor adds, walking straight to the fridge. Hellos are being exchanged, muted by Thor's sudden yell. "You've been robbed, my friend."

"What?" Stark turns and Natasha snickers at the sight of the empty fridge.

" _You're a little shit_ ," she tells Thor in Russian, knowing the all-speak will translate for her. It gets her a wink and grin.

"Pizza it is," Stark declares, before relaying his orders to JARVIS.

It's not much later that the food is delivered and Stark comes back empty handed from his attempt at fetching Clint and Steve. Nat has a niggling feeling why and she smirks to herself. When they do show up, however, freshly showered and relaxed, all her worries are appeased. Clint is back to his old self, and she's grateful.

~

Hours later, after setting stories straight and filling out reports for SHIELD, she gets a moment alone with Clint. They're back at the kitchen counter, waiting for the popcorn rattling in the microwave.

"He's dangerous," she tells Clint and he nods, staring at the tabletop. "He can hurt you easier than you can hurt him." Another nod. "Watch out for--"

"Tasha." Clint turns and looks at her, finally looks. His eyes are clear, his skin still pale, but brighter, somehow. It's the reassurance she needs.

"Ok," she squeezes his hand with a smile. "So, are you sore?"

"Oh yeah," comes back with a wiggle.

"Pretty great though," she laughs, "feeling it for a while, isn't it? Kinda like the night's not over."

Clint huffs and shakes his head. "Yeah, yeah, I get it, dick's good," he says and gets a punch in the shoulder.

"You know, you can almost see the smugness emanating from him," she grins, "a good cock is hard to come by".

"Oh my god," Clint covers his face with his hands.

"Hey," she pats him on the back, "you can always take turns," and doesn't stop her continued laughter.

But Clint suddenly looks at her, eyebrows raised. "Super soldier serum," he waves a hand in a non-explanation. "Gonna need something larger than a dick," and Clint looks good with pink cheeks.

It reminds her of her morning with Morrow and she involuntarily makes a fist.

"Yeah, that's right," Clint waves his bottle of beer before taking a swig, eying her hand warily.

"I can teach you," she offers.

That's when Steve walks in with an nearly empty bowl. "Teach him what?" he asks before shoving the last handful of the popcorn in his mouth.

"Fisting."

Yes. Popcorn everywhere. But Clint is laughing. It feels good. _Breathable_.

~

Natasha's at base the next day when her empty stomach urges her to brace the cafeteria for nourishment. Her cheek is still throbbing lightly from time to time, but everyone's put it on the mission. She hasn't seen Morrow since the previous morning, but there she is now, sitting in a corner. She looks even worse, from the finger shaped bruises around her wrists, to the way she's leaning slightly askew on the metal bench.

Natasha swallows against her dry throat. There's no way Morrow can look her in the eye now. Hmpf. Not like _anyone_ wants her company anyway. She wishes Clint back on active duty sooner rather than later. But she shakes it off before regret can form, and she brings her tray of food all the way to the other corner of the room, thankful for not being noticed.

She's lost in thoughts, pushing around groups of peas on her plate when, with a soft clank, another tray is set on the table before her. She lifts her eyes to see Morrow there, standing with a frown on her face.

"Brought dessert," she says, pushing the tray with two slices of pie and two cups of coffee.

She sits down then, not too fast, not too gingerly either, a challenge in her eyes and not even the slightest wince.

"What are you doing here," Natasha breathes.

"Wanted to say thank you," comes back. "This is exactly what I needed, you have no idea."

Fucking beautiful, wearing her pain like that. Nat inhales deeply and allows a smile to surface. "Good."

They sit there, eating in silence, Sonya unmoving and Natasha witnessing, no need for words.

"So," Sonya starts, "how about some sparring this week or next?" she asks, surprising Natasha. "When I'm less stiff."

She considers it thoroughly. More people would be good. Now that even Coulson's gone. But she pushes the memory of the agent away, not the time to dwell, she's said her goodbyes. "Sounds good," she agrees.

"No fisting, though," Sonia adds before taking a sip of her coffee.

"Heh, no deal," Nat huffs and receives a raised eyebrow in return. "It's _my_ turn," she follows with a smirk.

Now both of Sonya's eyebrows are raised. "My hands are bigger," she whispers.

"I know," Natasha returns, conspiratorially, just as quietly, and Sonya matches her grin.

Well perhaps pain is a great way to make friends, after all.

~End~


End file.
